


pins and needles

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [38]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 08:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Robbie,” he says, when they’re flying back to Washington, up 3-2 in the series.“Am I playing fine?” Robbie asks.“You’re playing well,” Matty says.“Kay,” Robbie says. “Then it’s fucking fine, okay?”





	pins and needles

The dumbest part about falling in love with a teammate — and it’s not a short list, Robbie’s sure — is that even when it’s over, it’s never fucking _over_. End things with someone else, you hide out, lick your wounds, whatever the fuck you need to do to feel better. Robbie? Robbie’s got a ticking clock before he’s got to be in the same place as Georgie. Not just the same place: adjoining stalls, cramped bench, fucking shoulder to shoulder, shoved together, has to look at him, _keep_ his eyes on him, because you can’t flinch when you’re partners, especially not during the fucking _playoffs_.

Robbie doesn’t know how to feel about it. The only thing he’s got is nausea right now, but that’s not a feeling, exactly. Or it is, but it’s not an emotion, it’s — whatever. He feels sick, and that’s about it.

He sticks around Matty and Wheels’ place as long as he can, until he’s running out of time to get dressed. It’s stupid, but he doesn’t want to go back to his apartment, like the second he steps in the door he’ll lose that numb but vaguely sick feeling and go right back to the tears. He’ll take nausea over that any fucking day.

“I can pick you up?” Matty says, doing this thing where he’s trying not to hover with his body but he’s doing it with his voice, “Drive you in?”

“Gotta drive Georgie’s car in,” Robbie says. “Can you drive me home?”

“’course,” Matty says. “You um—”

“I’m fine, Elliott,” Robbie says. “Stop — whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Caring about you?” Matty says.

“Okay, I _guess_ you can keep at it,” Robbie says, and lets Matty give him one more hug for the road before he heads home.

Robbie doesn’t spontaneously break down when he sees Georgie’s car in his driveway, or when he opens his front door, so that’s good. Small victories or whatever. He grabs the first suit he sees, spends too much time fighting to gel his hair, since he didn’t have a shower today and it’s hanging limp and greasy on his forehead. 

Driving Georgie’s car is weird. Annoying, because he has to adjust the seat forward and fiddle with the rearview mirror so he can actually see through it, uncomfortable, like it always is driving someone else’s car, but not, like. Anything else. It’s just weird. Yesterday Robbie kept waiting for something to set him off, and today nothing seems to be doing it. He should be relieved. He should feel fucking _something_.

Something comes in the parking garage. Something’s dread, the urge to drag his feet, which he fights the best he can, already running late between the gel job and the way he didn’t feel comfortable driving Georgie’s car like he would his own. Last fucking thing he needs is getting into a fender bender, and he’s — it maybe wouldn’t be the first time. Not his fault. Boston’s a fucking jungle, hit or be hit.

Georgie’s not at his stall, though his stuff is, and Robbie puts his keys in the pocket of his jacket, hopes no one sees him doing it. Keeps his head down while he changes into shorts and a Caps shirt, though that doesn’t help him from knowing exactly when Georgie approaches.

“Keys in your jacket pocket,” Robbie says, tying his shoe. His voice comes out even, so — Robbie’s really got to stop taking tiny fucking things as victories right now.

“Thanks,” Georgie says, and Robbie looks up. Georgie looks like absolute shit. Or like, good, because he always looks good, he once looked good with a black eye and a split lip, so shit’s relative, but he looks fucking exhausted. 

“How’re you?” Robbie asks, and Georgie looks backwards, like Robbie couldn’t be talking to him, which Robbie’s never seen outside of stupid movies.

“Good,” Georgie says, after he’s confirmed Robbie is, in fact, talking to him. “You?”

“Good,” Robbie says.

Georgie glances around again, and Robbie doesn’t get why until he opens his mouth. “I’m pretty shit, actually.”

 _Good_ , Robbie’s tempted to repeat, not vengeance — or not _just_ that — but more the fact that Georgie isn’t sauntering along all unaffected while Robbie’s sitting here dwelling in this shit.

“Me too,” Robbie says, holding a fist out. “Go team.”

Georgie cracks a smile, and it isn’t even close to his usual wattage, but.

“Go team,” Georgie repeats, and the fistbump that follows is like, the most pathetic fistbump ever. Heartbreak fistbump or something. Robbie makes it explode at the end. Kind of a metaphor. Kind of just to see Georgie smile again.

They do the heartbreak fistbump before the game by unspoken mutual agreement. Robbie can’t say it’s as good as the complicated handshake slash hug slash chestbump they’d worked out freshman year of college, but it’s probably better than what they’ve had going on since Georgie came to the Caps, which is a grand total of nothing.

The heartbreak fistbump carries them through the first round, which is pretty miraculous, considering Robbie doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing at any given moment, on total autopilot, that numbness that set in showing no signs of receding. Thankfully his autopilot is pretty damn functional on the ice, thankfully he’s so used to playing to Georgie it’s like second nature, thankfully he doesn’t tank the whole fucking team because his head’s not on straight.

Off the ice is a whole other story. Off the ice he’s been doing who even knows what the fuck — staring blankly at TV shows he has no interest in, staring blankly at TV shows he _does_ usually have interest in, letting Matty and Wheels bully him into coming over and staring blankly at _their_ TV. Matty beats him at Halo for the first time ever and doesn’t even bother to celebrate, just looks worried. Looks worried then, and when Robbie gives him remote privileges in Quebec City and doesn’t argue when Matty puts the news on, and when Robbie doesn’t bother trying to steal his bacon at breakfast. It’s turkey bacon. Who cares.

“Robbie,” he says, when they’re flying back to Washington, up 3-2 in the series. 

“Am I playing fine?” Robbie asks.

“You’re playing well,” Matty says.

“Kay,” Robbie says. “Then it’s fucking fine, okay?”

Robbie plays fine — Robbie plays _well_ in Game Six, assists on a goal from Georgie that seals the deal, not the game winner — that was Kurmazov — but the nail in the coffin, blocks a stinger that may have made a difference, that he has to walk off in the hall until he can feel his leg again, coming back as pins and needles. Has two shots of his own, though neither had a chance in hell of going in, blocked three shots in total, including the one that’s going to leave a mark on him, throbs in time with his heart. He played fucking _great_. They played great, this game and the series in general, and everyone’s going out to celebrate, and who fucking _cares_. It’s the first round, not the fucking Cup, it’s four wins out of the sixteen they need, they’re a quarter of the way there and they lost two guys already, thankfully not anyone key, but who knows what’s coming? Well, the Rangers, who won their series, and who pack a punch offensively and physically, and two guys isn’t going to stay two guys. It’s a little too early to be fucking celebrating.

Everyone’s loud and too self-congratulatory, significant others and friends streaming into the bar, and Robbie likes most of these people, Robbie _loves_ some of these people, but God, they’re so fucking annoying right now, so pleased with themselves, like they didn’t make it to the second round last year, the fucking year before that. It’s not a stop the presses achievement.

Matty sits with him at first, trying to get him hyped or whatever, but Robbie shoos him off, because it isn’t going to work and there’s no point in Matty wasting his night sitting beside a sad sack. Even so, he can’t help but feel a little resentful, watching him laugh into his beer at something Wheels’ girlfriend says, just as hyped as everyone else once he doesn’t have Robbie hanging off him, dragging him down.

Robbie doesn’t look for Georgie. He knows where Georgie is, he’s just. He’s not looking.

Chaps comes over to his sad sack table, nursing what’s probably his first beer. He’s less loud than the rest of them at least but he’s still smiling too wide, smugly superior with his newfound fucking perfect relationship, spends half his time with his phone, beaming down at it all giddy and sickly sweet. Robbie wonders what the over is on Lourdes sticking it in someone else on the side. Friend of Georgie’s, after all. Fuck knows David wouldn’t, has that one guy only thing Robbie did written all over him, but Lourdes, who knows. 

“Great series,” David says.

“Sure,” Robbie says.

“Are you okay?” David asks, which — wonderful. Chaps has made it out of his domestic fucking bliss to notice. Robbie’s so blessed.

“Look, just because you’ve never been to the second round before doesn’t mean it’s some huge fucking deal,” Robbie says. “It’s basically the bare fucking minimum for this team, so I don’t see why everyone’s so fucking hyped about it.”

“Lombardi,” Quincy snaps from the next table. “Outside. Now.”

Robbie stomps his way out the door, knows it looks stupid and immature but isn’t sure how to stop himself. “Ready for my lecture, sir,” Robbie says, barely resisting the urge to snap off a salute.

“Cut the fucking shit,” Quincy says. “I know you’re unhappy right now. Everyone knows you’re unhappy right now. You want to talk about it, I’m here for you. But you don’t get to make everyone around you unhappy just because you are.”

“I’ll go apologize, fuck,” Robbie says.

“No, you go home,” Quincy says. “You can apologize later.”

“You’re fucking kicking me out?” Robbie asks.

“They worked hard for this,” Quincy says. “We worked hard for this. You don’t want to celebrate, that’s your right, but you do that at home.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Robbie says. “Who made you—”

“Captain of this fucking team?” Quincy asks. “That what you were going to ask? Go home, Robbie. Get some sleep. Stop taking shit out on people who won’t fight back.”

“Whatever,” Robbie mutters, but he orders an Uber anyway, because he’s pretty sure Quincy would throw some kind of shit fit if he went back in, and the idea of that kind of drama right now is exhausting. He simmers for the first half of the ride home, but after that it all drains out of him, like it’s too much work to stay angry. When Robbie doesn’t even have the energy for anger anymore, what the fuck is left? Right now it’s just that ever present pit in his stomach, just feeling like shit.

 _Sorry_ , Robbie texts David. _That was a dick thing to say._

 _It’s okay_ , David texts back. _It’s not like you said anything that wasn’t true._

If David was aiming for the one thing that could make him feel shittiest, he nailed it. Robbie stews in that instead of seething, and fuck, anger was way better. He’d really like to get some of it back right now.

Basically the moment Robbie’s gotten in the door he gets another text, doesn’t really want to look at it, but feels obligated, even if most of the shit he’s gotten tonight was a slew of ‘congrats’ he responded with ‘thanks!’ to over and over until the word lost all meaning. It’s not congrats, at least, though probably worse, a text from Matty saying _q said u left. want me to come over?_

 _Don’t let me ruin your night_ , Robbie says.

_wouldn’t ruin it. no problem._

_Don’t really want to see anyone._ Robbie texts. _Have fun_.

Robbie kicks his shoes off, makes his way to the kitchen, grabbing two beers because it’s not worth the effort to go back and forth from the living room. His phone buzzes once again while he’s opening them, and he sighs, because he doesn’t want to tell Matty off but he’s about ten seconds from changing his mind and telling Matty he’d prefer he _didn’t_ fucking care if it got him off Robbie’s back for five fucking _seconds_.

It’s from Georgie, because of course it fucking is. _You okay?_ he’s sent.

 _Honestly, fuck off_ , Robbie texts back, and turns his phone off before turning on the TV, flipping through channels until he ends up on hockey, as per usual, just in time to watch Kurmazov’s game winner. He watches the rest of the highlights, and he can _see_ himself in them, the tape to tape pass he fed Georgie that made it 3-1, the shot block in the third that still throbs dimly. He can see himself, but it feels like he wasn’t there.

**Author's Note:**

> I think one of the reasons this took so long to write is that it’s deeply unpleasant to write (and probably read, sorry) a character struggling with depression, situational though Robbie’s may be, feels like nails on a chalkboard for me, the way everything kind of does for Robbie. Grating. Beneath the skin, so there's no way to ease it.
> 
> I had a hard time editing this one, so if there are any typos, etc, please let me know. I always appreciate a heads up on those, but they may be a little more likely this time.
> 
> This is based on my personal experiences with clinical depression. YMMV.


End file.
